The Adventures of Mulletman and Ruddy: George Thorogood, Aug '04 Part Two
After dinner, we wandered over to the door of the Fat Cat. At this point, Tony D was ready to simply eat the extra ticket, but asked the doorman if he knew of anyone looking for a ticket this late. The guy told D that he could buy back the ticket and sell it himself, but not at the $50 face value. Tony D got $35 for the ticket and losing just $15 on the deal was a good trade for hanging around like a scalper while missing prime people watching inside the club before the show.
We walked in and looked around a bit. The place wasn't all that full yet, so we decided to go upstairs to check out the lounge. As expected, the chairs on the rail of the balcony were all taken by chunky, middle-aged classic rockers. Beer bellied bikers wearing faded Harley shirts with grey pony tails sat beside feathered-haired matrons with massive secretary spreads jammed amazingly into circa 1982 Rag City Blues. Sprinkled about were the Hawaiian shirt and sandal wearing dorks that apparently show up at every classic rock concert. They must have a strong union.
We got a few beers and admired the lounge for awhile. The only drawback to hanging around up in the plush velvet chairs and couches was the fact that the stage could only be seen from the rail. Otherwise, it would be like seeing a concert from the set of an off-Broadway production of The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. We decided that we'd better head downstairs and grab a bit of floor space to call our own. We walked by the Rail Sitters and they looked us over, smirking as if to gloat over their great seats. I felt like tapping one of them on the shoulder and whispering, "Yeah, congratulations Tiny. You got off of your ass at home early enough to get down here and.......sit on your ass. What'dya do, TIVO Judge Judy?"
As we hit the last step of the stairs, we started looking for a nice spot to stand. The wooden dance floor was starting to fill up, but mostly right up front and we really weren't in the market for pushing and shoving. We chose a spot just to stage left that would give us a nice view but still give us a balanced sound from the P.A. We chatted a bit while we people watched. I think Mary saw him first.
Standing right in front of us was a guy sporting the most meticulously coiffured mullet I've ever seen in real life. David Spade's Joe Dirt must have been inspired by a trip to Modesto. He wore it clipped close up top and really close on the sides. But as your eyes traveled to the back of his skull, you saw the Ol' Kentucky Waterfall in all of its glory. Starting out as simple waves of hair, the follicles expanded downward and outward like a sponge dipped half-way into a dish of water. Spreading out over the back of his neck, the 'do reminded me of a Spartan helmet. For an accent piece, this guy grew the fluffiest fu manchu mustache this side of a Saturday Night Live skit. It actually seemed to sway in the breeze caused by someone walking by him. I swear, I was looking for the hidden cameras. I did not think this guy was for real. He was both wired and drunk, animated while slurring and annoying most of those around him. Normally, behavior like this by anyone would get on my nerves, but I was so fascinated by his mullet that I was now rooting for him to do something like when you're watching some animal at the zoo. Oh look, he's hitting on that chick! Cooool!
The dance floor was filling up now and soon the lights went down and the opening act took the stage. I'd seen a couple of the young looking band members walking among the crowd in the time before the show and wondered to myself if they were performers or just there for Thorogood. I should have bet my hunch because they all sported that "check out my cool, worn out t-shirt with Coors/Atari/insert retro logo here on the front that looks like I got it a thrift store but actually picked up on sale at Target last night" look complete with moppish hair and a trucker hat tilted just so. Among the aged classic rockers, they stuck out like I do at the ballet.
These guys broke into a slow, moaning blues beat that had full, rich sound. At first, I thought that they were an instrumental outfit, but then a dark haired young buck charged out to the mic and the band changed tempo into a somewhat generic bar band type of rock. Frankie Perez was the singer's name and he took control of the stage. He had a sort of growling vocal style and stood legs apart in a manner that reminded me and Tony D a lot of Born In The USA era Springsteen, complete with guitar slung under his arm and behind his back. I have to say that after a tune or two, Perez had won over the crowd, the three of us included. He definitely had a commanding stage presence and the songs got a bit stronger as the set carried on. The band impressed me more than I'd like to admit, given their Blink-182 appearance, especially the guitarist and bass player. The keyboard player was a bit too emphatic on one note background tones as he gyrated and headbanged, obviously over-compensating for his lack of contribution to the actual songs, but he was loving every minute of being onstage and I can't blame him for that.
As they ended their set and waited a moment for what was an obvious call for an encore, I leaned over to Mary and Tony D to comment that this band struck me as the type that would pull out a cover tune for an encore. Its a popular tool used by bands of this caliber, touring on their own music, but knowing that they'll get a huge response from a song everyone would know and appreciate. Frankie Perez and his band strode back out on stage and played the first notes of a tune that, while not exactly the same, shared the same full and rich sound from the instrumental intro at the beginning of the set. Tony D looked over at me and squinted, trying to think of the name of the familiar song. Mary looked back at me over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows as if to say, c'mon, let us all know what it is. I glanced at the ceiling as if the answer were painted there by Michelangelo and blurted, "Whipping Post!" Tony D shook his head, disappointed that he hadn't gotten it first. We all nodded our heads in approval while the band drove us down that road again. Perez's voice got a bit smoother and more soulful. Without any pandering on the part of the band, the crowd actually sang along with some parts, impressing Perez to the point where he took the mic from his mouth and rested it on his knee while he listened and grinned. The band stretched it out for a while jamming away and showing off their chops. I was really impressed and told Mary to remind me to do an internet search on this guy.
At the end of Frankie Perez's set, we got some more drinks and got back to some serious people watching. Mulletman was in full bloom. During Perez's set, he lifted a keychain flashlight in the absence of a Bic lighter. Was this his part in protecting the environment? It was hilarious, but I was a bit embarrassed for him. He had a ruddy faced, dumpy looking buddy with him that seemed to become a bit aloof at times like this. It may have been an autonomic defense mechanism that deployed in case there were people around that may have thought that they were there together. At the break, they got more booze and chatted up two ladies in the vicinity. Mulletman took the lead here and really moved in on the thinner, albeit much older, of the pair. Ruddy was left with the plump one, but I could not discern a look of disappointment on his face. Obviously, his role was to let Mulletman do the fishing and take whatever was left of the haul.
Mulletman and his new friend left for a little while, leaving us with just Ruddy to watch. He had no moves and made the shortest of small talk. The plump one smiled and nodded politely, but continuously looked back towards the entrance to see if her friend was on her way back. Meanwhile, the crowd was getting more and more drunk as a collective and the space in which to stand became more and more precious. Like animals before a natural disaster, a drunken rock crowd gets a bit frenzied when waiting for a show to start. Swells of shouts and foot stomping rise and fall, only to be followed by whistling and tribal chanting. The Fat Cat echoed with whoops and hollers and the faint but steady chant of Thor-o-good was gaining strength. This was a good time to get a drink to carry us through the headliner's show.
We walked in and looked around a bit. The place wasn't all that full yet, so we decided to go upstairs to check out the lounge. As expected, the chairs on the rail of the balcony were all taken by chunky, middle-aged classic rockers. Beer bellied bikers wearing faded Harley shirts with grey pony tails sat beside feathered-haired matrons with massive secretary spreads jammed amazingly into circa 1982 Rag City Blues. Sprinkled about were the Hawaiian shirt and sandal wearing dorks that apparently show up at every classic rock concert. They must have a strong union.
We got a few beers and admired the lounge for awhile. The only drawback to hanging around up in the plush velvet chairs and couches was the fact that the stage could only be seen from the rail. Otherwise, it would be like seeing a concert from the set of an off-Broadway production of The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. We decided that we'd better head downstairs and grab a bit of floor space to call our own. We walked by the Rail Sitters and they looked us over, smirking as if to gloat over their great seats. I felt like tapping one of them on the shoulder and whispering, "Yeah, congratulations Tiny. You got off of your ass at home early enough to get down here and.......sit on your ass. What'dya do, TIVO Judge Judy?"
As we hit the last step of the stairs, we started looking for a nice spot to stand. The wooden dance floor was starting to fill up, but mostly right up front and we really weren't in the market for pushing and shoving. We chose a spot just to stage left that would give us a nice view but still give us a balanced sound from the P.A. We chatted a bit while we people watched. I think Mary saw him first.
Standing right in front of us was a guy sporting the most meticulously coiffured mullet I've ever seen in real life. David Spade's Joe Dirt must have been inspired by a trip to Modesto. He wore it clipped close up top and really close on the sides. But as your eyes traveled to the back of his skull, you saw the Ol' Kentucky Waterfall in all of its glory. Starting out as simple waves of hair, the follicles expanded downward and outward like a sponge dipped half-way into a dish of water. Spreading out over the back of his neck, the 'do reminded me of a Spartan helmet. For an accent piece, this guy grew the fluffiest fu manchu mustache this side of a Saturday Night Live skit. It actually seemed to sway in the breeze caused by someone walking by him. I swear, I was looking for the hidden cameras. I did not think this guy was for real. He was both wired and drunk, animated while slurring and annoying most of those around him. Normally, behavior like this by anyone would get on my nerves, but I was so fascinated by his mullet that I was now rooting for him to do something like when you're watching some animal at the zoo. Oh look, he's hitting on that chick! Cooool!
The dance floor was filling up now and soon the lights went down and the opening act took the stage. I'd seen a couple of the young looking band members walking among the crowd in the time before the show and wondered to myself if they were performers or just there for Thorogood. I should have bet my hunch because they all sported that "check out my cool, worn out t-shirt with Coors/Atari/insert retro logo here on the front that looks like I got it a thrift store but actually picked up on sale at Target last night" look complete with moppish hair and a trucker hat tilted just so. Among the aged classic rockers, they stuck out like I do at the ballet.
These guys broke into a slow, moaning blues beat that had full, rich sound. At first, I thought that they were an instrumental outfit, but then a dark haired young buck charged out to the mic and the band changed tempo into a somewhat generic bar band type of rock. Frankie Perez was the singer's name and he took control of the stage. He had a sort of growling vocal style and stood legs apart in a manner that reminded me and Tony D a lot of Born In The USA era Springsteen, complete with guitar slung under his arm and behind his back. I have to say that after a tune or two, Perez had won over the crowd, the three of us included. He definitely had a commanding stage presence and the songs got a bit stronger as the set carried on. The band impressed me more than I'd like to admit, given their Blink-182 appearance, especially the guitarist and bass player. The keyboard player was a bit too emphatic on one note background tones as he gyrated and headbanged, obviously over-compensating for his lack of contribution to the actual songs, but he was loving every minute of being onstage and I can't blame him for that.
As they ended their set and waited a moment for what was an obvious call for an encore, I leaned over to Mary and Tony D to comment that this band struck me as the type that would pull out a cover tune for an encore. Its a popular tool used by bands of this caliber, touring on their own music, but knowing that they'll get a huge response from a song everyone would know and appreciate. Frankie Perez and his band strode back out on stage and played the first notes of a tune that, while not exactly the same, shared the same full and rich sound from the instrumental intro at the beginning of the set. Tony D looked over at me and squinted, trying to think of the name of the familiar song. Mary looked back at me over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows as if to say, c'mon, let us all know what it is. I glanced at the ceiling as if the answer were painted there by Michelangelo and blurted, "Whipping Post!" Tony D shook his head, disappointed that he hadn't gotten it first. We all nodded our heads in approval while the band drove us down that road again. Perez's voice got a bit smoother and more soulful. Without any pandering on the part of the band, the crowd actually sang along with some parts, impressing Perez to the point where he took the mic from his mouth and rested it on his knee while he listened and grinned. The band stretched it out for a while jamming away and showing off their chops. I was really impressed and told Mary to remind me to do an internet search on this guy.
At the end of Frankie Perez's set, we got some more drinks and got back to some serious people watching. Mulletman was in full bloom. During Perez's set, he lifted a keychain flashlight in the absence of a Bic lighter. Was this his part in protecting the environment? It was hilarious, but I was a bit embarrassed for him. He had a ruddy faced, dumpy looking buddy with him that seemed to become a bit aloof at times like this. It may have been an autonomic defense mechanism that deployed in case there were people around that may have thought that they were there together. At the break, they got more booze and chatted up two ladies in the vicinity. Mulletman took the lead here and really moved in on the thinner, albeit much older, of the pair. Ruddy was left with the plump one, but I could not discern a look of disappointment on his face. Obviously, his role was to let Mulletman do the fishing and take whatever was left of the haul.
Mulletman and his new friend left for a little while, leaving us with just Ruddy to watch. He had no moves and made the shortest of small talk. The plump one smiled and nodded politely, but continuously looked back towards the entrance to see if her friend was on her way back. Meanwhile, the crowd was getting more and more drunk as a collective and the space in which to stand became more and more precious. Like animals before a natural disaster, a drunken rock crowd gets a bit frenzied when waiting for a show to start. Swells of shouts and foot stomping rise and fall, only to be followed by whistling and tribal chanting. The Fat Cat echoed with whoops and hollers and the faint but steady chant of Thor-o-good was gaining strength. This was a good time to get a drink to carry us through the headliner's show.
Its also a good stopping off point for the story. Coming up: Thorogood lulls, wows, and proves to us all that he can read.
Next: Nigel Tufnel Would Be Proud; George Thorogood, Aug' 04 Part Three
posted by Tony at 8:27 PM
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